


Let’s Go Down

by caramel_sins



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: 1930s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Appalachia, F/M, Folk Music, Great Depression, Happy Ending, Hux is very sad, Rose is a Badass, Southern Gothic, West Virginia, and horny ghosts, mostly plot, some smut, welcome to the land of metaphor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:49:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26564653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramel_sins/pseuds/caramel_sins
Summary: It’s a hot summer day in the Appalachian mountains. Sunday service is in full swing when firebrand, moonshine peddler, and all around tough woman, Rose Tico, decides to make her presence known. Her outburst sets off a series of small events that make a big difference in two little lives.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Rose Tico
Comments: 16
Kudos: 25





	Let’s Go Down

**Author's Note:**

> Buckle in, this is going to be a long historical note, my friends! 
> 
> Welcome to Appalachia in the 1930s, we’ve got coal mining, we’ve got the Great Depression, we’ve got Tent revivalism, we’ve got snake handling, we’ve got American folk music!

It smelled like green grass and rain. It smelled like hot bodies pressed up together like peas in a tin can. It smelled like fire. It smelled like brimstone. It smelled like anger coming out of the mouth of an old man. It smelled like the breeze coming off dozens of paper fans in the hands of old ladies dressed in their Sunday best. It smelled like pressed shirts stuck to the skin of young men who had just washed behind their ears for no reason at all. It smelled like bored little children squirming in their seats until some watchful adult pinched them so hard on the meat of their little arms they saw stars. It smelled of sin. But nowhere did it smell of grace.

“God,” and Reverend Snoke said the word like ‘Gaw-d’ because all the preachers on the radio said it that way. Like the extra syllable made him closer to the Almighty, extending like a ladder he could climb to the celestial city. He prolonged it in hopes that no one would notice how he twisted it to suit his own needs.

“God sees your wickedness, children. God sees your wandering eyes. God sees your lies, your deceit. God sees the bathtub gin in your cabinets. God sees your obscenity. God sees your fornication. And He will show you justice! He will show you judgement, children! And by crook or by hook you will fall into damnation!” It was like a rocky rhythm at sea. It almost felt like a perverse jazz. Each crescendo and fall of his old voice like the beat of bass or the quick snare of a drum. It was hypnotic and the crowd swayed in time to it, like blades of grass bending in a stiff breeze. That fearsome kind of wind, the one before a crackling storm. 

“And God has sent down his judgement on us. It was our wickedness that brought the drought, the poverty, the hunger in our bellies.” 

“Ain’t no God of mine done this! It’s a rich man’s game and we lost!” A lone blade of grass shouted and sprouted above the rest. Rose Tico grew above the heads of the congregation, red t-bar shoes planted on top of a pew. The fans stilled and every head swiveled toward her. No one dared make a sound.

“Sit down, Miss Tico!” Sweat fell from the brow of Reverend Snoke, hitting the pulpit like rain. 

“Sorry, sir, but I ain’t going to. The Spirit has moved me. What man can stop the whims of the Spirit?” She had gumption for such a little blade of grass among many. She had smarts too. Rose had backed the Reverend into a rhetorical and theological corner. He had spoken so many times of the power of the Spirit. He’d spoken in tongues, healed with a touch of the hand, survived the bite of a snake, all through the power of the Spirit. If it wanted to speak now he could not stop it. 

Reverend Snoke nodded his gnarled head at her, allowing her to speak, though anyone close enough could see the clench of his jaw.

“It ain’t God who gone and done this to us. I can name every man responsible for this on the fingers of one hand! God has nothing to do with the hunger in your bellies and all the work you missed! My daddy ain’t in his grave because God wanted him there, it was because some Logan Defenders decided to put a bullet between his eyes. 

Where were you, Reverend, when we all were gettin’ thrown out on the street? Where were you, Reverend, when they took the bread from our mouths? Where were you when they pulled the trees up out of their orchards, undoin’ the work of roots and vines? Where were you when our children curled in on themselves because of hunger? Where were you when greed fell on this valley like locust? 

It ain’t God who done this! It ain’t Him nor His avenging angels who cares for profit! It’s easier for a camel to go through the eye of the needle than a rich man into heaven. Ain’t that right, Reverend?” Rose’s passion made her cheeks flush. Twin blooms colored her round face, like beetroot, like cherry blossoms in early spring. Her skin shone with sweat but it looked like a holy glow in the stained glass light of the church. It made the Reverend’s rebuke feel like sacrilege. 

“That’s enough!” He croaked like an angry frog, all bellow and no substance. No one seemed afraid of his fury, the least of which Rose.

“How much coin you got in your pocket, Reverend? Who put it there?” She shot back, her words like a bullet meeting skin, going straight to the bone. 

“I said enough!” He sounded so weak, so ineffectual.

“We put our meager wages in your collection plate and where does it go, Reverend? ‘Cause I don’t see it going to our charities, our congregation. Hell, I feed more people than this church does! Tell me, Reverend, is that a new suit?” Little hums of approval shot up like crickets at dusk. Legs shifted together as bodies swayed and nodded along to Miss Tico’s words. Their bellies weren’t filled with church food and Reverend Snoke was looking a little too clean cut in his sharp linen suit.

“Heathen! Jezebel!” He roared from his pulpit, his face growing flushed with anger. His blooms of color on his pallid skin looked like deer blood seeping into dirt after the slaughter. 

Murmurs grew into grumbles of discontent. People felt restless, not sure which side to take. Hux watched with shock as the movement of the congregation began to resemble swarming bees, hot with rising anger. He watched as heads turned this way and that, as whispers rose into angry buzzing. Like fluttering wings the fans picked up a punishing speed as faces grew flushed with unchecked wrath. 

“I ain’t neither and you know it!” Rose shouted back, her defiance making her eyes light up like twin flames. She looked radiant like a firecracker about to burst.

“Get out of this house of God! I command you by the power of Christ!” Reverend Snoke bellowed. Hux supposed the Reverend wanted to sound like he was casting out a demon, that he had the power of the angels behind his very words. But he just sounded like an angry frog fighting off an enthusiastic hound. He was bound to be torn to shreds by a sharp bite and loud bark.

“I ain’t leaving until the last hymn is sung!” The crowd turned back toward her, eyes roving for what to do. They were hers now, positioned like sunflowers stretching out toward a glorious rising sun. 

“I said get out!” The frog was toast, dangling from the jaw of the victorious hound.

“Alright, then I’ll [lead](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=DbgfQ48hWuY).” Her defiance was beautiful, like wildflowers growing between cracks in the pavement. 

_I went down to the river to pray_

_Studying about that good ol’ way_

_And who should wear the starry crown_

_Good Lord, show me the way_

Her voice was as clear as a church bell. Like cool water from a spring. Like sugar in cooling tea. Like rain in a drought.

The blades of grass shifted and turned. The breeze blew them toward her, like dandelions they scattered. All at once congregants stood and began to sing along, popping up from their places. 

_O sisters, let's go down_

_Let's go down, come on down_

_O sisters, let's go down_

_Down in the river to pray_

The women sang, voices sweet like rock candy from the corner store. 

_I went down to the river to pray_

_Studying about that good ol’ way_

_And who should wear the robe and crown_

_Good Lord, show me the way_

More stood and more sang, rising and rising like smoke from a pyre. 

_O brothers, let’s go down_

_Let’s go down, come on down_

_O brothers, let’s go down_

_Down in the river to pray_

The men sang, voices warm like butter on toast. 

_I went down to the river to pray_

_Studying about that good ol’ way_

_And who should wear the starry crown_

_Good Lord, show me the way_

Every congregant stood now, bodies swaying with the power of their combined voices. The hive was alive, buzzing, making sweetness with their words. 

_O sinners, let’s go down_

_Let’s go down, come on down_

_O sinners, let’s go down_

_Down in the river to pray_

Slowly, like honey drunk bees they made their way out the doors of the church, pouring out into the yard. They floated through town, voices dancing over green hills and stoney mountains as they went to fill their bellies on manna and nectar from heaven.

****

Mrs. Kanata made the finest dumplings in this world and the next. Savory and hearty they filled the soul, not just the belly. They were like a salve on an open wound, forgiveness in a Salvation Army pot. She spooned them out of said pot, dumping them on to empty plates to be put into empty stomachs. The smell of them danced across the breeze, like seeds floating, trying to take root. 

The congregants ate the dumplings at dusk, for it was too hot to eat the thick doughy morsels in the heat of the day. Bugs tried to nip at ankles but citronella candles burned to ward them off making the air smell like oranges that have been sitting too long, sharp and sweet. 

Hux trudged up the steep hill toward the congregation, once Snoke’s now Rose Tico’s. He noticed there were more than the church pews would allow. Others had come to pray at the altar of Miss Tico, though he was unsurprised. Rose was able to rouse an audience with stirring sermons, ancient songs, and moonshine in empty cups. 

He saw Finn Johnson and Poe Dameron, hats in hand, winning smiles on their faces. They looked almost angelic in the golden light of the setting sun, though they hid jars of moonshine in small crates at their feet. They handed them out to all who came waltzing up, a few coins in hand in exchange for the contraband. Mr. Solo slipped them a few bills as he heaved two crates onto his shoulders, tipping his hat as he left. 

Hux wondered how much she got for this. He knew she was the nexus point, the place where goods and money traded hands. He assumed she got a cut. How else would she make enough food for the whole town every night of every weekend for the past few years. She was a good mechanic, an even better boss, but she wasn’t that good. She was playing with fire, dancing along a razor's edge, but that was Rose. She never let a thing stop her, no law, no man, no sign from God. She was a woman in full possession of herself, defiant to a fault.

“Hello there, Hux, what brings you by tonight?” Poe greeted him first as he not so discreetly kicked the crate behind the steps of the porch. 

“I ain’t snitching on you, no need for the false pleasantries.” Hux grumbled as he eyed the man. He was a wickedly handsome fella, with sparkling dark eyes and a smooth smile that set women’s hearts a-flutter. It made Hux’s skin crawl. He didn’t do well under the microscope of Poe’s unchecked charm. 

“Direct as ever.” Poe replied with a chuckle. Finn laughed too, white teeth flashing against the dark warmth of his skin. 

“I don’t have much time on this green earth. Certainly not enough for equivocating with bootleggers.” He felt sour, felt like a wet blanket but he couldn’t help it. Talking to Poe tended to have that effect on him. 

“Hush up! Not everyone around here has the same policy on snitching as you do.” Poe ground out between clenched teeth, eyes darting to the crates under the porch stairs. Hux rolled his eyes.

“Quit your yammering, Dameron. Everybody and their mama knows what you’re up to. You’re as obvious as a brick through a picture window.” He answered. Finn let out a crack of laughter earning a sharp look from Poe. It didn’t stop his mirth, just multiplied it.

“He’s right you know. You stick out like a sore thumb ‘round here.” Finn agreed, sticking his thumb out as if to explain himself. 

“Not you, too.” Poe shoved Finn with his shoulder earning another round of laughter from the other man. Finn’s smile made his face crease, bright teeth showing, eyes hiding behind the roundness of his cheeks. He looked resplendent in his joy. 

“I call ‘em as I see ‘em.” Finn chuckled, moving out of the way as not to be struck again by Poe’s retribution. 

“Where’s Rose?” Hux asked, growing impatient with their comradarie.

“Inside.” Poe nodded his head toward the house behind them. Hux looked up at the porch and tried to peer through the screen door. He thought he saw a dash of Rose’s teal blue dress but could not be sure. 

“You might want to freshen up before you see your lady.” Poe drawled, eyes roving over Hux’s wrinkled Sunday suit and disheveled hair. 

“She ain’t my lady.” Hux replied with a shy defensiveness that made his companions smile. 

“She ain’t nothing.” Poe said leaning forward with a knowing grin, gaze meeting Hux’s. He felt a fury at Poe’s observation. His brown eyes were too keen and Hux felt like a bug fried under the glare of a microscope.

“I know that’s right.” Finn laughed, nudging Poe with an elbow, calling his attention to the blush on Hux’s cheeks and tips of his ears. 

“You bring your fiddle?” Poe asked, changing the subject at lightning speed. Hux’s head spun at the shift. 

“I did.” Hux nodded, lifting his case from his side. Poe clapped his hands and did a little jig, a radiant smile taking over his face. Hux could not help the tug of his own lips. There was something pleasant about being wanted even if it was just by Poe Dameron. 

“Well now it’s a show! Finn, run up and get Rose.” Poe commanded. Finn’s grin widened and he took off, taking large steps toward the porch stairs.

“Don’t go and start nothin’!”Hux hollered in an attempt to stop Finn in his tracks, though his intention was half-hearted. 

“Too late!” Finn called over his shoulder. Hux watched as Finn bounded up the porch stairs two at a time, calling out Rose’s name. His voice carried over the crowd and then faded behind the slam of the screen door as he entered the house.

“What in tarnation has gotten into you, Finn Johnson?” Rose sounded light, happy, her voice like tinkling glass. Hux felt his heart constrict at the sound and he looked away from the door, eyes on the little bluebells that grew in her garden. 

Footsteps sounded on the creaking floorboards like rolling thunder. Two sets of feet made their way to the porch, door slamming again. He finally looked up and saw her there behind Finn, who grinned as he bounded down the steps. 

She looked like sunshine in her [blue floral dress](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/272397477446074065/) or like a chicory blossom in a field of dull grass, hair curled and pinned nicely despite the heat of the day. Her lips were painted a deep burgundy, like she’d sipped on some muscovy wine, her body swayed like she did too, all smooth rhythms. She looked like a picture, one that Hux should not touch lest he smudge the drying paint and ruin her for all eternity.

“Hux, what are you doing here?” She asked, head tilting in surprise. It was an action he had seen a thousand times. She had done it since she was a little girl, her small head dipping to one side, her brows slightly furrowed. Something inside of him bloomed when she did it, it always had. 

“I need to talk to you.” He replied, voice soft and earnest. She looked around, gaze lighting upon the people seated at makeshift tables. There was a nervousness about her that he could not place, like a quaking sparrow fallen from its nest. 

“Can it wait? I got guests.” She asked, her hand sweeping as she gestured to the congregants sipping their sweet tea and eating what dumplings were left. He followed her hand, taking in the laughing faces and colorful cotton dresses flapping in the light of the citronella candles and hanging bulbs. 

“It can wait.” He acquiesced, her nervous energy seeping into his bones. He wanted to tap his foot or pick at his fingers but he didn’t, he just stared at the little bow at the center of her dress instead. 

“He brought his fiddle.” Finn announced, gesturing to the case at Hux’s side. Hux looked down, almost as if he had forgotten about it, lifting it toward his face as if to make sure it was really there. 

“Did he now?” Rose’s brow raised and she stepped forward, moving closer to Hux. He held his breath, part of him hoped she would touch him. She didn’t. 

“Mmhmm. I think it’s time for a little concert, Miss Rose. What do you say?” Finn asked, a confident grin on his face. He knew, as well as anyone, that Rose never passed up a chance to sing. A smile curled on her lips and he felt her nervous energy transform into excitement, she practically danced on her toes. 

“I say, alrighty then! You gonna accompany me, Hux?” She looked at him with some unspoken tenderness. It hurt to see, so Hux pointed his gaze downward as he nodded.

“Yes, ma’am.” He replied, voice low. 

“What should we start with?” Rose asked.

“ _I’m an Old Bachelor_?” Finn supplied. Poe let out a low whistle of approval and Rose nodded, a sweet grin spreading across her face. A dimple formed in her plush cheeks and Hux felt eager to touch it, to place his wretched hand on the beauty of her smiling face. He was a sinner before God, unworthy of such an action. His hand hung limply by his side. 

“You gonna be the bachelor, Poe?” She asked, and something about that hurt Hux. He wanted to be her bachelor, to join voices though he could barely carry a tune. It was silly, a childish jealousy, but he could not help but feel it. 

“I always am.” Poe replied with a sly smile. Rose laughed, slapping the flesh of her thigh in mirth. 

“Alright, play us off Hux.” She giggled. Hux sighed, taking his fiddle out of its case and lifting it to his chin. He set the bow to the strings and began to play.

They took off like rabbits, voices lifting and dancing with each other. Poe had a fine voice, smooth and sweet like brandy. He was dramatic, playing the part of the old bachelor well, crying and carrying on to Rose. She matched him, skipping around him and teasing, voice still sweet. The crowd laughed and clapped along captivated as always by their antics. They paid no mind to Hux, who’s fingers danced along the neck of his fiddle, bow sawing through the air like bending wheat in an angry wind. 

The song came to a close and Rose and Poe stood, clasping hands as they bowed at the smiling audience. The patter of enthusiastic claps and the sting of sharp whistles filled the air as the congregants gave them their appreciation. 

“What next?” Rose asked, breathless, eyes shining with excitement.

[ “ ](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=J2SZQP4M5XQ) _[Pretty Saro](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=J2SZQP4M5XQ). _” Hux announced, the words coming out unbidden.

It had been years since he heard the song. It had been sung sweetly to him on an evening like this. His mother, voice soft and sad, let the melody flow through her as she mended a pair of trousers for him, tears in her green eyes. He had not wanted to hear it since, had not wanted to feel the ache of it in his breast but now he needed it. Needed the sweeping melody to remind him of something he was sure he had forgotten. 

“Dammit, Hux, that’s a sad one. We’re all trying to have fun.” Poe whined. Hux ignored him, eyes never leaving Rose’s face.

“Would you sing _Pretty Saro_ , Rose?” He asked again. Her eyes had gone soft, lips turned up in a small smile. She moved closer to him, hand brushing up against his, fingers lightly tracing a line over his knuckles. 

“For you, I would.” Her voice was gentle and sweet and it sent a shock through him. _For you_. 

“You’ve been overruled.” Finn said to Poe, brows raised with sweet amusement. 

“Seems I have! Well I see when I’m not wanted!” Poe made a face but he too held delight in his sparkling eyes. Rose blushed, moving her hand away from his like she’d been caught doing something she ought not have done. 

“Hush up! It ain’t nothing. Hux here is just a friend of mine. Isn’t that right?” She turned to him, hoping for his agreement. He could not give it to her, only honesty fell from his lips. 

“I don’t rightly know.” Hux whispered as he leaned his body toward hers almost unconsciously. His hand brushed hers again and he felt her pinky finger hook into his, the appendage curling, wrapping itself around his still beating heart.

“We’ll talk on it later. Right now we have a concert to hold.” She whispered just to him before she let go of his hand. 

Hux nodded and lifted his fiddle back to his shoulder. One mournful note, like a swallow's cry, was pulled from the strings of his instrument and the crowd was cowed into silence. All eyes, luminous in the light of candles and strings of hanging bulbs, turned to Rose whose own gaze was on the man with the fiddle. She waited for her moment to jump in, Hux waited too, breath held.

_When I first come to this country_

_In eighteen and forty nine_

_I saw many pretty lov’rs_

_None of which mine_

_I viewed it all around me_

_And saw I was quite alone_

_Me a poor stranger_

_And a long way from home_

Rose sang like their mothers did, voice rising and falling like swooping birds. It was a mournful sound, like weeping, but so beautiful it burned. How could something so lovely be so painful? He heard the longing in her voice, the breaking heart, the lonesomeness like a mortal wound.

_My love she won’t have me_

_For this I understand_

_She wants a freeholder_

_And I have no land_

_I can’t maintain her on silver and gold_

_And give her the fine things_

_A big house could hold_

Hux always thought this song sounded like the mountains, especially when Rose sang it. It sounded like the streams, the babbling water, the crying larks, the hooting owl, the hungry wolf, the timid deer. It sounded like wind through the trees, like breaking branches, like swaying boughs, like falling leaves. It was the distilled essence of their place of birth, of the dimming light of a setting sun or the dawning of day.

_Fare thee well to ol’ mother_

_Fare thee well to my sister too_

_I came for to ramble_

_This wide world through_

_And when I get weary_

_Oh I sit down and cry_

_And dream of my Saro_

_Pretty Saro, my bride_

He knew she couldn’t go on. He knew how she couldn’t sing of the turtledove without thinking of her sister, breath catching as she lay on her dying bed. So he played the last of it, bow dancing on tired strings until her voice gave out and they were left in awed silence. He heard the sniffles of old women drying tears. He felt his own threatening to fall. 

A lone whistle rang out and hands began to clap. Hux looked up to see Poe far in the back, leading the crowd to applaud. They did, whistling with more gusto, clapping with unrestrained enthusiasm, than they did for _I’m an Old Bachelor_. Rose looked at Hux, eyes shining, and gave him the sweetest smile he had ever seen. Felt like sunshine after a grey winter day. 

“Sing us another, Rose!” Someone shouted from the crowd. Rose giggled and shook her head, a pretty blush staining her cheeks. 

“You’ll tire me out!” She replied as she fanned her face with her hand. 

“Come on now, Rosie! Sing us [ _My Good Old Man_ ](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=wJZv5DxOBok) [!](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=wJZv5DxOBok)” Finn shouted from the back of the crowd. 

“Will ya be my husband, Poe?” Rose called out, preparing for the call and response of the song. 

“I thought you’d never ask!” Poe replied with a winning smile and a sparkle in his eye. 

The crowd laughed as Poe bounded toward the porch. He jumped up on their makeshift stage and nodded to Hux who put his bow back on its strings and played them out. 

****

Hux sat at the kitchen table watching the backs of women he had known from birth move like rippling waves as they cleaned dish after dish. Laughter trailed out of their mouths like jazz out of a phonograph, like blaring horns, like piano keys, like plucked bass strings. Some told stories of men, of their wandering eyes, of their wandering hands, of their wandering feet as they walked out of the homes these women made for them. Some told stories of happy children, of clumsy babies, of offspring grown who had no time for the women that held their hands as they learned to walk. Those not old enough to talk of babies and children told stories of stolen kisses behind falling sheds, of school days gone by, of unfulfilled promises, of opportunities lost.

Every once in a while Hux was handed a wet plate to dry. He would turn it in the dish towel in his hand and soak up the drops of water rolling down the painted porcelain. The action was thoughtless, coming from a deep well of memory. The room full of laughing women, the smell of soap and sloshing water, the feel of porcelain in his hand were all squares on the mangled quilt of his life. Decades ago he sat in a similar place, with a turning plate in his much smaller hands. Among the laughter, the jazz of feminine voices, was the sweet thrill of his own mother’s voice as she told the stories of his toddling legs and his high marks on the schoolwork he brought home. He could remember the sweet warmth of her praise, raining down on his skin. 

“You alright, baby, you’ve gone off somewhere and I wasn’t sure you’d come back?” Mrs. Kanata asked, voice warm like dripping honey. No one had called him _baby_ in such a long time.

“Oh he’s just tired of all our yapping,” Mrs. Organa chuckled as she made her way to one of the empty seats at the kitchen table, cane clicking against the floorboards.

“Not at all, ma’am.” He replied, looking down at his now empty hands. 

His rolled up sleeve revealed a red angry scar on his pale forearm, like warped roots of a dying tree. Two small white dots marked where fangs met flesh, where the mouth of a rattlesnake had sunk into him like one would bite into the soft fuzzy skin of a summer peach.

Faithlessness caused the snake to bite. Reverend Snoke had held the serpent in hand, an instrument of faith. He waved it in front of Hux, testing his love for the Almighty. His love faltered, flickered in the face of an impending strike. The snake lunged, sinking his deadly appendages into the pale velvet of Hux’s skin. The pain was acute, sharp and hot, like coals burning through the veins of his mortal body. When he stumbled out of the canvas tent, Rose had been there, eyes glassy with fearful tears. She took hold of his burning limb, lips closing around the twin punctures, evidence of his wavering faith. She sucked the poison out of him, spitting the toxins on to the dark mud below their feet. Slowly, with soft lips and warm salty tears she pulled the venom from him, made him human again with the care of her saving grace.

Hux looked up and away from his angry scar and at the older women who had settled around him. They sat, wearily, the weight of years on their shoulders making their breaths heavy, and eyelids droop in the waning hours of the day. They sighed as they shifted, trying to get comfortable in the stiff wooden chairs of Rose’s kitchen. 

Mrs. Kanata pulled out an amber jar from the depths of her woven bag. She twisted the lid, the noise hollow and scrapping. The scent of lavender filled Hux’s nose and he was once again reminded of his mother’s sweetness, the silkiness of her thick red hair that had tickled his cheek when she bent down to embrace him. Gently Mrs. Kanata scooped the contents into the soft brown palm of her hand. Slowly she rubbed it into the painfully dry cracks between her fingers. When she was finished she slid the amber jar over to Mrs. Organa who took a small dollop of its contents running it over her dry elbows, soothing the sore skin that covered the knobby joint. After she was done she slid the jar over to him, gesturing toward the vines of his scar. 

“Take it, son, help that scar heal. It’s been long enough.” Mrs. Organa said as she stood again, placing a soft hand on his shoulder. He nodded unable to speak, opening the jar and scoping out the cool lotion into his hand. He rubbed it into the roots of the tree, into the tainted angry flesh. 

“Thank you.” He whispered. She nodded as she moved away from him, beckoning to the remaining women in the cramped quarters of the kitchen. 

“Ladies, we’ve stayed well past our welcome.” Murmurs of agreement followed her slow halting movement through the house toward the screen door. The women followed, leaving kisses on Rose’s cheek and kind words in her ear. Mrs. Kanata lent forward, hand reaching out and grabbing Hux’s shoulder with a shocking force. 

“Don’t you harm a hair on her little head or I will find you and you won’t know nothing but pain.” Her voice was soft, quiet, even. Any onlooker would think she spoke friendly words to him, words an old lady would whisper to a young man. He was the only one privy to her fierceness. Hux nodded, swallowing, fear and anxiety prickling at the back of his neck.

“If I hurt her, I will gladly submit to your punishment.” He replied. She smiled, tapping his hand warmly, shifting from her former adversarial tone to one of tenderness. 

“You’re your mama’s boy afterall.” She stood then, old bones moving slowly. 

“Goodnight, baby. I’ll see you tomorrow for dinner.” Mrs. Kanata folded Rose into her small arms, kissing her on her full cheek. Rose smiled into the embrace, a dimple forming. She looked radiant in the warm hug of the old woman, happy to feel some kind of familial love. Hux understood her aching, he felt it’s twin bellow his own heart. 

“Stay safe, Maz.” She whispered into the white hairs that curled around the old woman’s head. 

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head ‘bout me, baby. I can take care of myself.” Maz chuckled, her old voice hoarse like rubbing stones. 

“I don’t doubt it. But be careful all the same.” Rose followed her out, staying in the frame of the swinging screen door. She waved to the old woman’s retreating back only turning around when Mrs. Kanata disappeared into the darkness. 

Rose walked back through to the kitchen stopping in the doorway, warm brown eyes trained on Hux. She rested her head on the frame, painted a dark green like the leaves of a magnolia. She looked even more like a work of art hung in the halls of some European palace where crowds of onlookers would come to stare at her mysterious beauty. _Rose Among Thorns,_ the plack would read, _Painted in Moonlight, 1931._

“What are you doin’ here, Hux?” Rose asked, her eyes soft as she watched him. She had a way of looking at him, just _looking_ , that set him aflame. He felt the raw heat of it now, burning him from the inside out. Fire licked along his skin making it turn heated and pink from the tips of his ears to the expanse of his chest hidden underneath his blue striped shirt.

“Why did you go and do that? Why do you always have to bite the hand that feeds?” The words tumbled out of him, his tone sounding hurt and forlorn. It reminded him of the bleating of a lost lamb searching for its shepherd. He hated the sound but could not stop it, he was an open book in front of her.

“That hand never fed me, Hux.” She replied softly, head shaking. How little they all had been fed by Reverend Snoke, by men like him that swarmed like buzzards throughout this dark valley. They all starved, too weak to bite. Except Rose, she always had strength enough to sink her teeth into a grasping hand. 

“Why?” He asked again. 

“I’d say it runs in the family. Wouldn’t you?” The words were like a knife, a bullet, an arrow straight through him. He swallowed all the pain, afraid she would see that she’d drawn blood. 

“You have to stop, Rose, ain’t no good will come of what you’re doin’.” She scoffed, eyes leaving his face to look out the little window over the sink. 

The only things visible in the dark were shining stars, galaxies beyond their small one. The expanse of a thousand constellations made their problems seem both small and all consuming, a contradiction of perspective. For a moment they were the only two people in the vastness of the universe. For a moment they were just specks spinning on a heavenly body doomed to expire. 

Hux watched as Rose pondered their smallness, their insignificance. Her shoulders rolled in on themselves, as if the weight of a thousand celestial bodies rested on her back. 

“I’ve never been afraid of getting hurt.” She admitted. It seemed more like a confession than a badge of honor, like she wished she had been more cautious. But Rose was no wilting flower, the girl had thorns. 

“That’s the rub, ain’t it? You always flew too close to the sun.” He pointed out. She laughed, a bitter thing, her eyes still lost in the stars. 

“There’s a thrill to flying. You should try it sometime.” She replied. She seemed like she was soaring even now. She felt so far away from him. Untouchable. Unknowable. Light years away.

“I’m afraid of heights.” He whispered.

When he was a boy he had climbed trees, he had walked among the sharp rocks of mountains, he had looked down upon valleys and imagined he was a giant whose footfall shook the earth. When he was eleven, at the age when boys believed they were men, he fell from a precipice, crumbled to the ground like falling snow. He shattered upon impact, his leg broke in two places, he still feels it when it rains. He never did climb rocks and trees again. And when he looked down upon valleys, he was no longer a giant but a small boy afraid to take a step. 

“Me too but it hasn’t stopped me yet.” She replied. He didn’t believe her. She was a woman who still believed she was a giant, still believed in the power of her falling steps. 

“I ain’t as brave as you, Rose. Never have been.” He admitted. She turned to look at him, brows furrowed an angry storm brewing behind her warm brown eyes.

“That ain’t true, and you know it.” Her voice was firm and dark. She was always angry with him, he was used to the harsh edge of her voice like a dagger against his bobbing throat. 

“The hell it is.” He chuckled as he looked down at his mangled arm. The red vines of his scar spoke of his cowardice, evidence of his fearfulness and lack of faith. 

“Your father wouldn’t be six feet under if you weren’t brave.” Her voice was a distant whisper, barely audible over his harsh breath and the creaking of the floorboards as she stepped cautiously toward him. When he looked up she was alone in the empty space between the doorway and the table like a ship lost at sea. He was afraid she would crash against the rocks even though he knew she was made of stronger stuff. 

“That ain’t bravery. That’s cowardice.” What was brave about a little push, what was brave about letting sharp jutting stones do all the work for you, what was brave about waiting until you were well past manhood to do what you were always meant to do. 

“Beg to differ.” She smiled at him, gave him the taste of something sweet. Her smiles always reminded him of peach cobbler, of ice cream melting into sugary crust, of softened fruit, of the warm sticky sugary taste of something so lovingly made. He could taste it now as he stared at her upturned lips. It did nothing to ease the pain of long festering wounds.

“I let him do all manner of horrible things.” His voice was hoarse, unused to giving confessions. Each word that fell from his lips was loaded with some wretched memory. Each syllable spoke of years of agony. Rose looked at him like she could feel each and every blow and she resented him for it.

“You were a child! Ain’t no good blaming a boy for the actions of a man.” She spat, her anger unfocused. He knew the feeling. His wrath swirled like a bitter tempest, now, the force of it directed at her.

“You did!” His voice was sharp like the barking of a hungry dog. She jumped back, shocked and angry like she had been bitten. He wondered if she would let him suck out the venom when the storm of his anger had cleared. 

“When did I ever?” She asked, reeling back ready to strike. He laughed some horrible miserable laugh. Of course he would carry the memory of her rejection with him and she would go on like it had never occurred. Wounded animals tended to remember when and where they had been hurt.

“You know what you did, Rose.” He tried again, desperate to hear her admit to her wrongs, to admit she remembered his lips on hers. 

“The hell I do! What on this green earth are you yammering on about?” She was angry now, sick of his accusing eyes. She moved her hands as her passion grew to new heights. They looked like fluttering birds as she threw them up in exasperation. 

“That night in the graveyard.” He could still smell the wet autumn earth, her hair whipping around in the breeze, the spices from the cider his mother had made them, the soap he had used to scrub behind his ears, her breath as it ghosted over his lips. He could still feel the sting too, the hot angry pain of embarrassment. It fueled his fury even now. 

“Christ, Hux! We were children. You still holding on to that?” _Still holding on?_ He held it to him like a baby would it’s blanket, fist tight with stubborn fury. He held onto it when nights were cold and lonely and he only had that to keep him warm. He held it so fucking tight he was afraid it would be crushed under the weight of his hand but it never was. The brief moment of her lips on his was the sweetest thing he had and he would die before letting it go.

“What else do I got to hold on to?” He looked down at his empty hands, at the twisted scar on his mangled arm. 

“I can give you something else if you need it.” She said, voice like a melody he had been longing to hear. Though to his ears it sounded distant, not yet his to have, like it had come from a freshly turned grave. 

“What do you mean?” He looked up at her, brow furrowed, voice still angry though the feeling leached out of him sinking between the cracks into the floorboards and down into the cellar where old bones lay below packed earth. 

She walked forward and stood in front of him, between his open legs, his inner thigh brushing up against the skirt of her dress. This close he could see the little white and red flowers scattered across it like they were caught on a long wind. He could see her creamy skin glisten above the neckline. He could see the stitches in the piping, red like poppies, vibrant against the blue of the cotton fabric. He could smell her sweat mixed with the light spicy scent of her perfume. 

Hux swallowed and looked away, her searching eyes making his stomach lurch and his heart stutter. He felt her hand on his cheek, cool against his heating flesh. She lifted it toward her, made him look her in the eye. 

“I’m gonna kiss you now.” She told him as she leant forward, pressing her lips against his. He pulled her close, arms wrapping around her waist, bodies flush, trying to suck the warmth right out of the soft give of her chest. 

The last time he had done this with her they were among the dead. Her father’s grave was only a few yards away. His father had put him there. Ghosts watched them then. Spectral eyes cast judgment as they peered around old worn out stones and tilting crosses. They floated around them, curious, eager to be among the living for only a brief moment. What did they think of strange and foolish young love? Was it a sweet memory or a bitter curse? Did they watch with envy or malice? Did they watch him kiss her, lips unskilled and unsure, and laugh at his inexperience? Did they rejoice when she smacked him clean across the cheek and called him fresh? Did they nod their heads in agreement when he had promised, in the heat of his embarrassment, that he would never stoop so low as to kiss vermin like her again? Or did they sigh in frustration, shaking their heads at the wounded pride of a silly boy? 

_“You ain’t good enough for me anyway, Armitage Hux.”_

She had said to his retreating back, throwing the dirt of some ancient grave at his head. He had grumbled some string of curses, feeling the decay of their ancestors soil his starched shirt. He had felt the white hot sting of shame take hold of him because he knew she was right. Nothing about him had ever been good enough for her, even the dead knew that. But now, by some miracle, she kissed him like she thought he was gold in the cradle of her hands. 

She broke from him, stroking the copper strands of his hair away from his face, eyes searching. For the first time in their little lives as specks in the vastness of the universe, Rose stood above him. 

It always shocked Hux how small she was for the space she occupied in his mind and out in their world was so large. But up close, like this, he was aware of how fragile she was, how much of his hands covered the tiny expanse of her back. He knew it was an illusion, a trick of perspective. Nothing about her was fragile, nothing about her was small. She was a giantess who shook the earth with sure steps, and all around her the weak crumbled, Hux included.

“Penny for your thoughts?” She asked as she leaned down, brushing soft lips against his in a facsimile of a kiss. Even the barest touch sent sparks down his spine. There was nothing like the warm tenderness of her affection. 

“I’m not good enough for you.” Her words came out of his mouth, an echo from their past. She winced like they stung her as much as they stung him. If she’d asked him he would suck the venom out of her with soft lips so she might not feel the pain of it any longer.

“I said that, didn’t I?” She stroked his face, a gentle passing of fingers over the skin of his cheeks, as if to soothe old hurts. It did not have the desired effect though he treasured the gesture like one would jewels. 

“You weren’t wrong.” He admitted. She shook her head, tears welling up in her warm brown eyes. The painting shifted, changed. She resembled an icon, a papist rendition of Mary, weeping over her many sorrows and the grief of all the world. He had been struck by the profundity of it, the divine beauty of tears rolling down flushed skin. 

“I was a girl and I was a fool. I was a bitter little thing.” She insisted, lips trembling. He reached for her, fingers tracing the path of her tears down the fullness of her cheeks. Gently he wiped away the holy water that stained her face, fingers feeling the heat of sanctified flesh. 

“You had every reason to be bitter.” He pulled her close, lips finding hers in a brief but soothing touch. She tasted like salt, mournful and purifying, making open wounds sting. 

“I had no right being mad at you for something you couldn’t control. It’s like being mad at the rain.” She argued but Hux couldn’t help but think that there was value in being angry at a storm. 

“I could have stopped him.” He could have killed his father sooner. He could have prevented him from going down to the mine, gun in hand. He could have joined the miners, like the other young men in town. He could have died, a martyr for a good cause, a worthy death. 

“And what, stopped the strike dead in its tracks? Stop the greedy from stealing? Stop mouths from going hungry? It’s all much bigger than your father. Bigger than Snoke too.” His mother once told him that there was no stopping a boulder as it rolled down hill, it was always much too large for one person to hold. Even Sisyphus struggled. Hux always fancied himself a ruined king, a man punished for thinking he was greater than the gods themselves. Self-pity always sat alongside self-aggrandizement.

“You’re too kind to me. I don’t deserve your affection.” He felt something wet roll down the planes of his cheek. He heard thunder in the distance and assumed it was rain. That would explain the rolling droplets that fell from Rose’s cheeks into the soft strands of his hair. That would explain why she held him so tight, afraid of the lightning that sizzled as it hit the earth. 

“Love ain’t about deserving. And my God, Hux, you deserve all the love you can get. Lord knows you haven’t had much of it.” She whispered as she shook against him, hands fisting into the fabric of his shirt. He realized, as a sob tore through him, that she did not shake. He did. 

“Rose, please, you’re killing me.” The words came muffled in the fabric of her blue cotton dress. It stuck to her skin where his head had been, soaked through with water from the tempest that raged through them now. 

“I’ve saved you once, I’ll save you again.” Her words were a sweet benediction, a prayer for salvation. 

When he was a child, small and thin, he was taken up the side of one of the mountains that surrounded them, toward a hidden lake. Congregants, dressed in white like doves led the way twining through the boughs of trees. They looked like ghosts, spectral images lost behind branches and leaves. They sang, old durges, [solemn hymns](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=b1Z4PAZX9Bs) about dying men, desperate for heaven. When they arrived they surrounded the lake, little wraiths watchful and silent. One by one parishioners were led to the lake and dipped, back first, into the icy waters. They fell back with grimaces on their faces and shot up, gasping for air. 

Hux, small and thin, was ushered forth into awaiting hands, clawing for him like pale appendages from the grave. He had felt a spike of fear, a desperate desire to escape into the woods and haunt the trees for all eternity rather than be dragged under by these skeletal fingers. He turned to his mother who stood at the edge of the lake, tears in her green eyes. He stared, transfixed, at her angelic face as they dropped him into the spring, expression blank, his faith in her stronger than any tide or vengeful spirit. His faith in Rose was the same. If she held a snake to him now, it would not bite. 

Hux leant forward, pulling Rose to him so they could meet someplace in the middle. Lips brushed, fingers skimmed along soft tear-stained skin, heat bloomed in veins and capillaries along the surfaces where they touched. Never in all his life did he feel so alive, so vital. The sweep of her tongue was like water given to a thirsty man. He drank down her sweet gift. She moaned like his mouth tasted like sugar and he treasured the sound more than diamonds. 

She pulled away, taking in small gasps of air before she continued her fevered exploration of his mouth. He was surprised they needed to breathe when he would have gladly drowned in her ardent affection. To die in her arms would have been more than he deserved. 

His hands explored the expanse of her body, the rolling hills of her hips, the plains of her thighs, the swells of her behind that fit so perfectly in the palms of his hands. She gasped, breaking from him, as he squeezed the flesh between eager fingers, a small smile gracing her lips. She kissed him again, hungry, her own hands traveling to his, pulling them along her, to places he had never imagined going. 

His hand, covered by hers, slid over her soft belly up over her navel and to the glory of her full breasts. He had imagined, more times than he would willingly admit, what she would feel like under his insistent palm. All fantasies paled in comparison to the soft give of her breasts, to the way she sighed his name, to the way she brought his face close so she could kiss him while he molded her body in his hands.

Was this what Pygmalion felt as he shaped Galatea into a thing of eternal beauty? Was this what Aphrodite saw when she granted her frozen form life? Surely not, for Rose was not something a mortal could fashion, not something that came to life by his will. She was so resolutely human, so much herself that she was beyond fantastical comparisons to Greek gods and their selfish whims. And no statue, no thing of static beauty, could be so warm, so sweet, so alive. 

Without warning she stepped away from the cradle of his arms, disengaging with them like a swallow untangling itself from vines. He was bereft for a moment, torn asunder by her absence. All sorrowful self-pity was eradicated as he watched her lift the skirt of her sweet blue dress, unveiling the soft cream of her thighs and the white cotton of her underwear. She pulled her drawers down, revealing a flash of dark curls and pink skin. He felt his mouth go dry, felt his blood run hot and molten through his veins. He felt the ghost of her lips on the puncture wounds in his arm, sucking the poison out. 

“What are you doing?” He asked as she moved toward him, hitching one leg over his lap as she straddled his hips. 

“What do you think?” She asked, as she settled, placing the heat of her over him. A moan fell from his lips as she brushed against his sensitive cock, still trapped within the confines of his trousers. He cursed Eve, Adam, and God for the shame of nakedness. He would have had them never eat of the fruit of knowledge if he could be bare before Rose and she before him. 

“When you go and do something like that I’m afraid thinking is the last thing I could do.” She laughed, head thrown back, eyes closed, body shaking with mirth. He grinned at the sight, she was so lovely when she smiled bright like this.

“Take a guess.” She commanded as she dipped her head forward, kissing him again, lips steady despite the building heat between them. Tentatively he brought a hand up the velvety skin of her thigh to the waiting heat of her cunt. His fingers dipped into the sweet depths of her. She was wet, silky, ready for his touch. It set him alight, the knowledge that he had done this to her, made her ache for his touch. She gasped, breaking from his lips to moan in pleasure as he explored her. It felt like discovering paradise, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, Atlantis, Eden, all between the flesh of her thighs. 

“Is this a good guess?” He asked as he looked up at her. Her eyes were closed, rapture pulling her brows together as if she was in agony. She nodded, shifting her hips so his fingers dragged along her again, lips falling open in a quiet gasp. She smiled, her curled hands digging into his shoulders as she slowly opened her eyes. 

“You’re more clever than you let on.” She kissed him again, lips sloppy as he continued his soft exploration. 

He had done variations of this a half a dozen times with a young woman in Huntington. When he was around seventeen his father got it in his head that he needed to become a man, though Hux was unsure how this act made him one. He went along with it just as he went along with most things his father pressed upon him at the time. He bought Hux a night with a young woman, Anna, a girl really, who knew his father by his first name. She was sweet, with curling brown hair and a sparkle of wit in her blue eyes that did not seem to diminish despite the insults laid at her feet. Hux had ruminated on her strength at length and found he had met few whose will was equally unbreakable. Few except Rose. He supposed that’s why he liked her.

Anna had patiently taught him how to please her when he asked, smiling and laughing good naturedly at his fumblings. She stopped laughing after a bit, proud of how well he followed instruction. He was always an apt student, this was no exception. When all was said and done she sang [ _Joe Bowers_ ](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=nannaYmUWZ8) to him in her raspy voice _,_ giggling when she got to the part about the butcher with red hair. 

He came back to her a few times when the lonesomeness made him crave human touch. Anna always seemed happy to see him and for a time he thought about asking her to marry him. He didn’t love her but he felt that perhaps she was the only woman in the world who did not recoil at his touch. He thought better of it when he saw her with a young man, eyes shining with deep affection as she held his hand in secret, her pale fingers intertwined with his dark ones. 

It had stung to see it, though he could hardly expect her devotion. He had stopped seeing her after that, hoping she would be free to be with her man as often as life would allow. He thanked her now, heaped praise upon that kind woman, as he brought Rose to new heights with each pass of his fingers. God bless, Anna! 

“My God…” Rose gasped as he slipped a finger inside of her, feeling the pull of her body against the pads of his fingertips. She was like honey, sweet and sticky, running down his hand. 

“It ain’t God doing this to you, Rose.” His voice was dark, possessive. He felt some kind of perverse jealousy at her rapturous exclamation. He didn’t want to hear another name from her lips even if it was the Almighty’s. 

“Ain’t God in all things? Can’t He be in this?” She was panting, hips moving like waves against the shore. She held onto him, arms wrapped around his neck, lips pressed against his temple as she whimpered and stuttered, moving closer and closer to some kind of divinity. 

“Right now, darling, it’s just you and me.” He spoke the words into the midnight of her hair, his breath making the strands of it dance. She moaned his name, fingers digging into his shoulders as she came apart, trembling with the exquisite force of it. 

She fell limp in his arms, head buried in the crook of his neck. He could feel the flutter of her lashes against his skin, delicate like the wings of a dragonfly. Her lips brushed against his throat, trailing soft kisses along the exposed skin above his collar. He still had his tie on, still dressed in his Sunday best. She seemed to take notice and began to pull at his confines with slow determination. 

Rose’s nimble fingers dug into the knot of his tie, loosening the fabric until it fell, in a whisper, to the floor. She pulled at the button at his collar exposing the skin of his throat to her wondering fingers and lips. She sat back, slowly, eyes focused on the task at hand like he was the engine of some car that she hadn’t quite figured out yet. He looked at her with loving reverence taking in the angelic flush of her cheeks, the dark look of her eyes, the smudged burgundy of her lipstick along the outside of her mouth. She looked so beautiful it caused him pain. 

He brought a hand up to her cheek, stilling her motions as he brought her lips to his once again. He would never tire of kissing her, not as long as he had breath in his lungs. He could feel her smile, he could feel a small tremor of joy flow through her body as she moved against him. 

What would the spirits, who had watched them so long ago, say if they could see them now? He wasn’t a silly boy any longer and she wasn’t an angry girl. All past hurts had fallen away, buried underneath headstones covered in moss. Would they smile as she rose up on her knees above him, making room for him to undo the fly of his trousers? Would they look away as she cuffed him, small fingers sending pleasure down his spine? Would they wait eagerly for her to sink down on his cock, eyes closed in rapture, listening to gasps on kiss stung lips? Would they blush at the curses that flew from his open mouth, at the way he moved within her, desperate and quick? What would they do if he took her on the mound of a grave, if he showed them what life looked like in its most exquisite form? Would they howl their displeasure, angry at the way she cried out for him, angry at how they flaunted their flushed skin? Would they hiss and spit as she bowed beneath him, blood pumping through veins, sweat rolling down the planes of golden skin, heart beating a desperate rhythm? Would they be jealous of how they could give to one another, how they could touch? Would envy making them throw their spectral form about, desperate for vengeance as their bodies found pleasure only earthly beings could? 

Here, in the world of the living, Rose cried out his name. Tears of bliss fell down her cheeks as her eyes fluttered in rapture. He fell with her, body moving beyond his control, pleasure fizzling like lightning along his every nerve. _Ain’t God in all things?_ Her words came to him from some distant plane, asking him to answer the question again. _Yes, yes, love of mine, God is in all things, especially this._

Hux thought about saying it aloud, telling her about ghosts and divine love but he did not. He remained silent as the grave, fingers tracing lines along her still quivering thighs, lips finding pathways along her neck. She sighed, voice soft as she sang. 

_Well, I wished I was a turtle dove_

_Had wings and could fly_

_Far away to my lover's lodgings_

_Tonight I'd drawn the line_

_And there in her lilywhite arms I'd lay there all night_

_And watch through them little wind'ers_

_For the dawning of day_

She stood, fingers entwined with his, like vines of an old tree. She lifted him into the branches, high above their small little world, pulling him up, up and up to the creaking stairs of her home. Slowly, like crawling roots, they made their way down the expanse of her hallway, to the cushioned treetop of her awaiting bed. And there in the strength of her lily white arms he would lay, and look out her little windows for the dawning of day.

**Author's Note:**

> Coal mining: Prior to the 1929 market crash and the subsequent depression, Appalachia was embroiled in what has been dubbed the Coal Mining Wars. From around 1912-1921 there were uprisings in coal country, mostly West Virginia but with some notable strikes throughout the country. These strikes were bloody and long and they all culminated in the Battle of Blair Mountain starting on August 5, 1921 and ending on September 2, 1921. This resulted in deaths of anywhere from 50-100 miners and the use of the US military force on citizens. This was the largest battle on American soil since the Civil War. All of this because the miners dared unionize.
> 
> The Great Depression: Not going to get into too much detail here but suffice it to say, the Great Depression was no fun. Mass amounts of unemployment, starvation, environmental threats, and general hopelessness plagued the country for most of the 1930s. A way that this is reflected in the story is actually through Rose’s dress. The reference picture I used is of a “feed dress” or a dress made from the fabric of a feed bag. During the Depression dried goods were put in sacks made of fun colorful fabric so that women could then use them to make dresses for themselves or their children. This dress that I found for inspiration is pretty incredible and one of my favorite examples of these kinds of garments. Whoever made this either had a flare for design or found a stellar pattern! Good on you, honey!
> 
> Tent Revival: Reverend Snoke and the loosey-goosey service I wrote is based on tent revivalism. Born in Appalachia, tent revivals were fiery preaching aimed at scaring parishioners and titillating, think of it as religious reality TV. Tent revivals rose in popularity during the Depression as people were seeking answers to their many woes. There was also a rise in what would become televangelism in religious radio personalities. Two of the most notable radio figures were tent revivalists themselves, S. Parkes Cadman and Aimee Semple McPherson. 
> 
> Snake handling is also a speciality of Appalachian evangelical Christianity. George Went Hensley popularized the practice claiming that if one had the Holy Spirit inside of them they would not die from the snake bite. Wild stuff! As you can imagine this practice has killed a lot of people. Do not try this at 
> 
> Quick note about snake bites: you cannot suck the venom out of a snake bite fast enough to be effective. I utilized this myth for ~poetic~ reasons. If bitten by a deadly viper consult medical professionals not would be lovers.
> 
> American Folk Music: The songs in this fic are Appalachian folk music passed down from generation to generation many of them originally English, Scottish and Irish. In some cases, folk songs from the American south are better preserved in terms of lyrical accuracy than their English, Scottish and Irish counterparts. This music is pretty much exclusively taught through oral tradition, meaning that it was not until recently (within the last century and some cases the last half century) that these songs were written down in any form. 
> 
> All the songs I picked beside “Let’s Go Down” (a gospel tune that came from African American spirituals but was popular among all Southern congregations) can be found in the work Hedy West. She was a folk singer in the 1960s who was determined to track down and sing folk songs from Appalachia. During the 1960s American folk music started to be interjected into the music scene of New York. West found that many of these folk singers were interested in Southern folk music but were dismissive of the people who created and maintained the tradition. 
> 
> The daughter of a union organizer in Georgia, West learned these songs from her grandmother and uncle as well as other folk singers around the South who had maintained the folk tradition within their own families. The version of Pretty Saro I used is the one I grew up on, not Hedy West’s. With most of these folk songs there are slight variations due to them being part of an oral tradition. I also added Rhiannon Gibbens version of “Wayfaring Stranger” which is the song the congregants sang at Hux’s baptism. Gibbens is a really incredible musician and does a really amazing job of preserving and talking about the African roots of banjo playing as well as how black folks contributed to the richness of American folk music. (If the song sounds a little familiar you may have heard it either from Johnny Cash or the film “1917”. It’s use in “1917” is a great example of how closely linked American folk music is to English, Irish, and Scottish folk music.) I’ll try to link them all for you. If not they are available on Spotify.
> 
> Pronunciation of Appalachia: “Apple-atcha”


End file.
